The Vatican Rip Read online

  What little I’d seen told me the worst. The Vatican was no peaceful East Anglian church, as I had fondly imagined. I had so far done it all properly. Exactly according to the old antiques thieves’ adage: suss the outside, and the inside will take care of itself. Only, the outside of this particular rip was a real downer.

  Irritably I noticed I was being observed. My old woman was peering in at the window. Her face was sad, her gaze fixed wistfully on the hot food through the glass, a right Orphan of the Storm. This pest was getting on my nerves. I fidgeted and ate determinedly, but her stare bored into my shoulders. I finally surrendered and gave her a jerk of my head. She came in like Jesse Owens.

  I asked grudgingly, ‘Which?’

  ‘Con funghi,’ she said, really quivering with delight.

  Wise in the ways of the world, the pretty serving lass gave her a chunk big enough to feed a regiment. Blissfully the old lady tore into it, while I paid up and left. I was narked to find the irksome old biddy trotting beside me, gnawing her pizza plank.

  ‘Grazie,’ she burbled. ‘The Vatican now?’

  I started to cut across the Andrea Doria among the market stalls. ‘Mind your own business.’ We risked life and limb reaching the other side unscathed. That vast dark brown wall was in clear view down the side streets.

  ‘The Vatican makes you so sad.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  She cackled a laugh. The market was already showing signs of winding up for the day. Stallholders were beginning to box up their unsold stuff for loading. It was all so pleasant and good-humoured I almost forgot how bitter I felt. I took no notice and tried to shake her off by walking quicker. The old biddy simply trotted faster.

  I’ll say this for her, she was a spry old bird. She seemed to know a lot of the market people and sprayed greetings right and left as we hurried through to the flight of steps where the street ended. I sat for breath. She sat beside me, still chewing gummily on the shredded remains of her pizza slab.

  ‘Going in this time?’

  I eyed her. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You didn’t before. You walked round the walls to study the entrances. Never seen a stranger do that before. Except once.’ She smiled at me. I had to smile back. The old dear was nothing more than a fly little chiseller, a wheeler scavenging on the fringes of the tourist crowds. Harmless. She went on, ‘Three years ago.’ Her eyes were merry as a fairground. ‘They caught him before he’d got a mile.’

  My throat dried. ‘Caught him? You mean—?’

  ‘Si, signor. A robber. A bad man.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  She nudged me. ‘What’s your game, signor? Tourist clipping? A con? A hideout?’

  ‘Just looking,’ I told her offhandedly, but worrying like mad. Was I that obvious?

  ‘So young and foolish,’ she said mischievously.

  I rose in earnest then. I wasn’t going to take that from anyone, the stupid old bag. Anyway she was too shrewd for my liking. ‘No.’ I wagged a finger at her as she made ready to bustle after me. ‘No more. You go your way. I go mine. Goodbye, old lady.’

  ‘Anna.’ She was enjoying herself.

  ‘Goodbye, Anna.’

  ‘Arrivederci.’

  She was looking after me, smiling and shaking her head. The pizza was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Sickened, I stood looking at it.

  The Chippendale rent table, for such it was, stood almost halfway down an immensely long gallery upstairs in the Vatican Museum. I checked its appearance against my memory of Arcellano’s photo. It was the one all right. That didn’t worry me, but its position worried me sick.

  On its flat top stood a glass case containing a present from President Nixon to one of the Popes, a horrible ornithological Thing of white birds and ghastly synthetic grass. I reflected that President Nixon had a lot to answer for. Still, with any luck the Thing might get damaged when I did the rip, which would clearly be a major contribution to the world of art.

  Hundreds of visitors were ambling about the Museum by now, a good sign. There were plenty of uniformed guards, which was really grotty, one at each angle and in every secluded room. This particular gallery was about twice as wide as the average living room. It couldn’t have been situated worse. No exit near by, no doors. The white library near one end of the gallery was a good hundred feet off. Okay, wall-cupboards stood against part of the opposite wall, and the protrusion of a rectangular wall-pillar created an open recess here and there, but that was all the cover there was. And the bloody windows gave me heartburn the instant I clapped eyes on them. Wherever you stood in this long corridorgallery you felt like a tomato in a greenhouse. I’d never seen windows so wide and tall before, great rectangular things, beautiful but full of the chances of being seen exactly at the wrong time. To one side the windows overlooked a raised terrace, landscaped gardens, lawns and walks. To the other, one could see a small macadam road with a line of parked cars. Each car displayed an official-looking sticker on its windscreen. More open grassy swards, and that was it. Not a place to hide.

  The gardens ran off to include a lovely villa and a spectacular little grotto complete with miniature waterfall, but too far away to be any use. The entire place was a miracle of design. Lovely, but ruinous to any rip, at least in the safe old Lovejoy style.

  As I hung about pretending to be overawed by the Nixon gift – as indeed I was – parties of visitors came along the gallery. I’d never seen people move so fast in all my life. Everybody simply stomped hurriedly past all the delectable antiques, for all the world as if on a route march. Most gave only a sweeping glance at the cased displays, further along, of early Christian burial artefacts and miniature votive statuary. Of course, this speed was very cheering. Except they would certainly notice, if that lovely antique table were missing and that Thing was left sitting there on the floor. You could hardly miss an aquarium full of white birds, especially if you fell over the damned thing. Simply nicking the rent table was definitely out.

  A mixed party of Italians and Germans raced through. I could feel the floor vibrate and felt sad. Sad because the vibrations were small in amplitude, which meant a very substantial solid flooring. You feel these by rocking back on your heels as somebody walks past. And the lovely ceiling was an arched miracle of painting. Note that: the most difficult kind to penetrate from above. So no way in from above, through the windows, the walls, or through the floor. Gawd.

  Miserably I tagged on to a group of Americans and plodded downstairs leaving Arcellano’s beautiful table standing there.

  The rip was impossible. Arcellano had had it. Now I had to tell him.

  I phoned the number Marcello had given me. A young woman’s voice came on, to the background of an infant’s loud abuse. Pausing breathlessly to admonish the infant, which only made another sprog burst into discordant song, she told me Marcello was still on duty, and could she give him a message.

  ‘On duty,’ I said pleasantly, but not liking the phrase. ‘Please tell him Lovejoy rang.’

  ‘Right. I’ll phone him at the station. Where can he reach you if he can’t get away?’

  That was a bit difficult. ‘May I ring you again, in, say, an hour?’

  ‘Yes. That will be fine.’

  I kept listening after we said our goodbyes. I didn’t like that word ‘station’, either. Her receiver went down without any special clicks full of ominous implications to an antique dealer like me. No special significance in the woman’s voice, either, obviously just a young housewife doing multihanded domestic battle with her two riotous offspring. Which in its way was as ominous as anything I had yet encountered since arriving in Rome.

  I had bad news for Marcello. This rip needed Murph the Surf, not me. I cheered up and went out for a gander at the streets. It was high time other people started getting bad news, as well as me. Share and share alike, I always say.

  You’ve never seen such neat shops as there are in Rome. I knew from Maria
’s relentless teaching that the shops shut for the afternoon and open again about four-thirty. They were just opening for their second rush.

  I went down the Andrea Doria, a wide and pleasant street. You have to be an olympic pole vaulter to get across safely but I made it. Two cups of caffé-latte with a cake columbe the size of a tram and I felt full of myself. Within one hour I’d be free of the rip, the whole bloody thing. I’d simply tell Marcello the Vatican was a fortress, protected by vigilant guards who were obviously wise in the ways of the horrible old world. Then, duty done, I would spend a few happy nights in this lovely city’s museums and art galleries until my money ran out, then off home. What was impossible was impossible. No two ways about it. I wandered on in a welter of relief. Even Arcellano would have to accept the obvious.

  It was coming up to Easter. I’d never seen so many Easter things in my life. Shop interiors were hung all about with chocolate Easter eggs done in scintillating coloured papers, each egg decorated in a spray effect for all the world like a grenadier’s badge. And windows with a zillion chocolate shapes, chocolate baskets full of tiny eggs and little creatures doing their thing. You couldn’t help but be fascinated. I saw one that I don’t know to this day how it stayed upright, a giant floating dove cake in creams and puff pastry. Marvellous.

  Marvellous, that is, until I saw old Anna struggling in the grip of the proprietor, her hand pointing imploringly at me and screaming blue murder.

  ‘Nephew! Nephew! Enrico! He’ll tell you the truth!’

  I looked round. The old bat meant me.

  Shoppers gathered instantly, volubly joining in and having a whale of a time explaining opinions.

  ‘Are you her nephew?’ the proprietor demanded.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ Anna screamed, yelling it was all a misunderstanding which her nephew would account for. ‘Enrico! Tell them!’ Enrico, for Christ’s sake?

  ‘It’s your auntie!’ people informed me. I was pushed at Anna. Faces were everywhere. A million voices were raised in tangled explanation as I looked about desperately for escape. And Anna was screeching and pleading, with the weary proprietor accusing Anna of stealing the things in her basket.

  ‘Poor old woman!’ people cried.

  ‘Let my nephew explain!’ Anna was bawling. She reached over and clutched at me. I could have strangled her.

  ‘Hush! Let the nephew explain!’ everybody babbled.

  There was no way out. A horde of faces turned expectantly. I drew breath, trapped. The trouble was, everybody looked so bloody nice and interested. If they hadn’t I’d have scarpered in a flash – and I’d have got away, too. Nobody scarpers like Lovejoy Antiques, Inc.

  ‘Yes?’ the proprietor demanded.

  Italy abhors a silence, so I started. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to the proprietor, casting a loving glance on Anna. There was no doubt in my mind the sinful old devil had half the shop in her basket and, seeing me contentedly sipping coffee, had hit on the notion of using me for cover. ‘Yes. I’m her nephew. Hello, Auntie,’ I smiled.

  ‘There you are!’ everybody exclaimed triumphantly. ‘He is her nephew!’ They told Anna I was her nephew, after all.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Auntie,’ I announced loudly, quickly beginning to get the hang of Rome talk. This was one thing Maria hadn’t taught me: use gestures and keep going. If everybody else talks louder, use a few more decibels yourself. The system of alternates used where I came from – saying your bit in turn – is regarded hereabouts as surrender.

  ‘You have?’ Anna said, amazed despite herself.

  ‘For two whole days,’ I lied, embracing her. ‘And here you are!’

  ‘Yes! She is here!’ the shoppers chorused.

  ‘My poor auntie,’ I bawled into the din, eyes misty, ‘has been expecting me for Easter and wanted to give me a present, but she is poor—’

  ‘Ah, how loving!’

  ‘– but,’ I thundered, ‘proud!’

  ‘Ah! How human!’

  I had some of them in tears. The proprietor was glancing exasperatedly about. A strolling policeman across the street was looking across. One more problem I could do without.

  If there’s any misunderstanding, I’ll pay!’ My yell gained instant approval, even scattered applause on the crowd fringes.

  ‘She stole—’ the proprietor tried loudly.

  ‘How much?’ I bawled louder over the hubbub. ‘I’ll pay, this very second!’

  The place was a riot of chatter. A couple of tearful old ladies and a well-dressed elderly man pressed forwards offering bank notes.

  ‘Here! Take this, signor! For the old povera!’

  No!’ I carolled. ‘This lady is my responsibility! My honour demands—’

  ‘Such honesty!’

  The proprietor named a sum beyond my resources. Thankful for the racket, I flourished my handful of notes and, howling explanations that my dear old auntie was in any case slightly loony, grandly miscounted out a complicated sequence of notes. Old Anna looked murderous. The pandemonium reached deafening proportions as I wrung the proprietor’s hand. Several of the shoppers embraced me tearfully.

  I left the shop a hero, with my dear old auntie clinging to my arm. We walked, smiling and reunited, round the corner to a small alley and paused, carefully looking right and left to check we were unobserved. Then she clobbered me on the side of my head, hissing abuse.

  ‘Cretino!’ she spat. ‘Stopping them from giving us money—’

  All for equality, I clocked her back hard enough to glaze her eyes. She leaned against the wall, moaning.

  ‘You beast!’ She was obviously at death’s door from my criminal assault.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said calmly.

  Her basket was crammed with chocolate delicacies under the cover cloth. No wonder the proprietor was narked. Old Anna had practically nicked his entire shop, the evil old witch. I found her purse and riffled inside. Two hundred grotty lire.

  I flung the basket down. The old sod was falling about laughing at the expression on my face. I chucked the chocolate figures back, keeping a merry Easter rabbit out of spite.

  ‘Here,’ she said, sobering up long enough. ‘Got any further on your Vatican job?’

  ‘What Vatican job?’

  ‘I understand,’ she said slyly. ‘But I could help you.’

  ‘How?’ I asked levelly, hating the old crab.

  ‘You’re new to Rome. Your Italian’s good but raw. Learned too fast, see? Come and live with me.’

  The old lunatic was off her nut. ‘With you?’

  ‘Not like that, cretin. We’d be a good team. Do that shop act all over Rome.’ She went all coy. ‘I’ve extra space. My daughter’s away studying. We’d be a great team, Enrico.’

  This was getting out of hand. Anyway, I had to phone Marcello to get myself off the hook. I unlatched her arm but I couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘You’re a scream,’ I told her. ‘Get lost, Granny.’

  She weighed me up. ‘You’re too dumb to be a good thief.’

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ I corrected with asperity. ‘That’s you, remember?’

  ‘Better than you’ll ever be,’ she said, rather sad. I’m in the open market eight every morning if you need me.’

  I felt myself warm to the stupid old creature. In her own way she was courageous and vital, and for a senile geriatric she had startling eyes. I shook myself. When you get feelings like that it’s time to cut out, so I did.

  Smiling to myself I thought, me? Need her? That was rich. ‘Good luck, Anna.’

  ‘Keep it. You’ll need it, Enrico,’ she called after me. ‘Arrivederci.’

  I was still smiling when I looked back from the intersection. She was trotting beside a small group of tourists, chattering eagerly and obviously in her element. I could hardly keep from laughing outright.

  With considerable relief I got through to an anxious Marcello from a payphone near the Julius Caesar Theatre.

  ‘Is everything all right, Lovejoy?’<
br />
  ‘Look, Marcello. The job’s off. It can’t be done.’

  Marcello sounded astonished. Gawd knows what kind of a build-up Arcellano had given me. He exclaimed, ‘But there’s no question of backing out, Lovejoy—’

  ‘Oh yes there is.’ I was getting narked. The whole thing had gone wrong from the start. It was all based on misconception. And, for Christ’s sake, I fumed to myself, one antique’s not the whole world. ‘I’m backing out right now. So Arcellano has a bee in his bonnet about an antique. Haven’t we all?’

  Marcello’s voice went funny. ‘Arcellano?’

  ‘Yes. Tell him I can’t do it. Nobody can.’ I sailed on. ‘Just pass the message on that Lovejoy resigns. Tell him to ask the SAS instead.’

  ‘Lovejoy! You know Arcellano?’

  I was too mad and too despondent to chat about things that were pathetically obvious. ‘See you, Marcello.’

  ‘Lovejoy!’ He shouted so desperately loud the phone crackled. ‘Lovejoy! Tomorrow morning! Six o’clock! The Colosseum! See me there—’

  ‘Nice knowing you,’ I said, and put the receiver down. Everybody else has a thousand excellent ideas about your work. Ever noticed that?

  It was only when I was actually on the point of going for a quiet glass of wine that I realized my money was missing. Then I recollected how close Anna tended to walk with one, how trustingly she’d taken my arm – on the wallet side. The old bitch had dipped me, the evil old cow.

  Apart from a few coins I was broke.

  Chapter 8

  Next morning I escaped from the hotel – into the worst day of my life.

  Usually I’m a night owl. I’m up early too, which is just another way of saying I’m hardly a ball of fire once the day is actually under way. With the extra stimulus of wanting to escape without paying I was tiptoeing out by five o’clock.